Black Flag
by Anthropophagite
Summary: The misadventures of a quartet of close friends-turned-siblings in possession of something terrible, trying to lay low and failing at that miserably. [CanonxOC scattered, you have been warned]
1. Breakdown

Evlynn was in shock.

It was in the way she stared straight ahead, moving mechanically with no response to anyone around her. She had not even reacted to her own gashed thigh, clutching tightly to the thing that had started this. Her face was blank, eyes clouded over, unresponsive to the worrying A'styee running at full bear beneath her. Oryon to her right, calling out to her and trying to get her to look at him, Iishta trying to chatter presumed encouragements toward the panicking Nautilus. Oberryn was slowly falling behind, each stride of his Bull putting just a small amount more distance between them and the front two.

They couldn't stop now, but the urgency of the next step was crucial; as soon as the lab fires were put out, they would send out the Hunters. They needed to collaborate now, keep at least two steps ahead. Anything less could find them captured, or more likely worse. They had done the unthinkable, after all, and were caught red-handed and running.

Fae had taken up the rear, keeping an eye over her shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed. It was only a matter of time and her own mild stress pushed her to make the next call. She looked forward for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes, focusing her attention on Oryon. He was still trying to comfort Evlynn, though looked over his shoulder when Oberryn called to him. G'lgumyish had fallen several paces behind the two leading dragons and that distance was only growing wider. Iishta was pulled back a bit, slowing her pace to keep time with the much bigger dragon. From there came the heated discussion Fae was expecting, overhearing the debate at her position behind the pack on their next action from that moment.

She was about to offer her own points when Derryus made a noise beneath her, a grumbling that rattled through them both. Carefully, she sat upward, buffeted by the wind that rushed passed them in the little Sonic's continued advance after their companions. Once, she was almost knocked sideways from the seat-piece, caught herself and braced a bit lower to avoid the turbulent air, looking behind them in the direction they had come. It took a moment for her to see them, but some ways back on the horizon, a pack of eight varied dragons with their riders were closing in fast. The distance was growing smaller by the second, and it did not take long for her to see the noticeable tattoo on the haunch of just one dragon.

_That was faster than anticipated..._

"Ve haf company." she announced once she turned back toward those in front. "Zey haf already dispatched ze Hunters."

The bickering over tactical movement died down, Oryon looking back toward her with Oberryn following suit. "How many?"

"I count eight, but you know how zey are."

Oryon was silent, though Oberryn looked forward, toward Evlynn. She had not moved at all and A'styee was starting to panic again, evident in the chittering she was making and the way her stride was broken. For a dragon trained in jumping, a stuttering gait was a sign of stress or injury. In the absence of the latter, it was undoubtedly the former.

"Vhat do you suggest vhe do." It wasn't even a question, the larger of the four riders already submitting himself to something. Any suggestion that would get them out of the line of fire. The defeat in the face of urgency was more than prominent.

Abyssal gaze shifted first back to their pursuers, then forward toward the Nautilus growing further and further away. The landscape ahead was flat, for now, the terrain easy and pocked with small sections of long-deteriorated human settlement. Fae drew her lips thin. They were waiting on her input. Eyes lowered just a bit, finding Derryus beneath, the dragon making a concerned noise in his chest. One hand stroked an eye ridge, reassuring him before she turned back toward Oryon.

"Keep to A'styee." she ordered. "I t'ink zere are a few ruins ahead you can take shelter in until zis blows over, but you haf to keep A'styee from panicking too much until you get zere or she might cause herself or Evlynn harm." With a nod, Oryon pushed Iishta forward to a better position. Attention shifted to Oberryn, pulling Derryus up beside him. "Keep behind. Make sure t'ings keep on track. If somet'ing happens und I don't come back, you are ze next defense, vit' Gil."

"I t'ought vhe agreed not to add to dhe body count." he stated, pursing his lips in a worried annoyance.

She shrugged a bit, looked up front again. A'styee was not panicking as badly as before with Iishta nearby, as expected. "Sometimes ... sometimes ve haf to make sacrifices." The chuckle that left her there was worrying, even to herself. "Zey broke zat rule vhen zey murdered Tatiyanna, und forced Bapteesta's hand. I'm just doing vat I do best."

"Getting yourself killed isn't going to solve anyt'ing, Fae. Dhey vhill still send Hunters, and vhe vhill be vhit'out a proper defense."

She afforded him a reassuring smile, though from the way his lips drew thinner, she could tell it didn't work as well as it should have. "I'll just haf to be better zan zey are, if anyt'ing to stall for time. Remind zem vhere all zat training vent."

Oberryn sighed, a heave of his shoulders more than a noise. "...Be safe. Come back to us, da."

Her hands came off the controllers for just a moment, Derryus taking the cue to slow down and put some distance between both parties. "I'll try." It was poor assurances, but assurances none the less. Another noise, an apprehensive chirp, from the little Sonic running beneath her. Another rub along one of his ridges was given, his head started pulling back and up as speed decreased far enough to do so without repercussion.

"Let's give zem hell, Derr." she muttered to him, settling against the seat proper and flicking a switch on the dash.

Familiar clasps snapped down along her lower legs, anchoring her, the seat itself extending back a few inches and sloping downward, locking in place. A configuration usually used for displays in shows and competitions for entertainment, it would have to do for an appropriate battle-seat. The way it shifted for better stability of the rider would also be increasingly helpful, especially with what they were about to do.

Derryus was still in motion by the time she took control once more, looking over her shoulder to assess how far back the Hunters were. Unsurprisingly, they were close enough she was able to distinguish the differing breeds of dragons in the pack with clarity. Leaning forward to pick up some speed before she tilted the seat suddenly to her left with a release of the mechanism from her left foot-pedal.

The silent command was executed with practiced precision, the little Sonic digging his front claws into the ground long enough to swing his body around sharply and launch with little effort from that point forward again, aiming for their pursuers. She hunkered down into the seat behind his head, felt the tense begin in his chest as the assault began, an unexpectedly loud roar echoing from him as his war-cry. The timing had to be perfect; any missed steps could prove fatal in the end. She knew from the formation the incoming Hunters had taken that they were there for blood, assigned to take back the War Engine via any means possible. The next moments would be crucial, because their opponents would be relentless if she and Derryus fell.

There was a shout, surprise rippling through the pack once they were aware of the Sonic dragon bolting across the plain back toward them, a screaming beast of pale turquoise and pastel greens. The Hunters pulled back, dragons skidding almost in unison. Distance closed, Fae dictated in the seat positioning the next command. Barely a second passed before it was executed, Derryus bunching into a coil and springing forward, position shifting once airborne. Hind-feet landed first, making contact on the crown of the lead dragon, the Sky-class shrieking against the contact what slammed its head toward the ground. Energy was redirected across the Sonic's frame, pushing his landing pad downward further as he bounded over the top of his adversary's rider, digging claws into the squealing beast's hips and lower back.

Fae could feel the shift beneath her, power moving across her four-legged companion from back to front. Right pedal was pushed back, the seat shifting to the side. The vertebrae in his tail snapped into alignment, his gravity centering and a shift into his forelegs again before he swung the now-stiffened tail with his hindquarters about. Compact limb missed the dragon to their immediate right, but still managed to smack the rider off his seat some distance from the creature. Claws released finally from their first casualty, leaving the whimpering Sky with debilitating gashes in its haunches, Derryus swinging around to land on his hind-feet on the ground. One bounce to reassess before he was back on all fours and launching forward again.

The first assault had already caused panic among the dragons, those untouched trying to whirl about to properly counter. They had not expected the Sonic to already be incoming, jaws displayed wide in a shriek of defiance before he collided with a small Psi, barely bigger than he was, and knocking both dragon and rider to the ground with the shock of the attack. He was not on the ground long, another voiceless dictation drawing him airborne again and aiming for the dragon to their left, claws displayed and readying to incapacitate it much as he had the first. Tail was swept along the ground, aiming to knock the dragon on their other side off-balance.

Derryus didn't succeed in making aggressive contact. Something hit the left anchor at her ankle, throwing her off-balance enough to catch sight of it bounce off some ways away; Green ramming shot, rolling to a rest some ways away. The dragon she was attached to lost balance with the strike as well, tail flailing to try and counterbalance, stumbling on his hind legs. She caught sight of the culprit, another group of four Hunters appearing as if from nowhere with the lead Energy-class bearing the Gear necessary.

_How underhandedly effective. As expected of your role..._

Before Derryus could resume balance, the Psi he had battered earlier had regained its feet, donning the familiar green muzzle of ramming Gear and rushed him in his vulnerability. She felt his legs whisked from under him almost as much as he did, a pair of switches on the control handles clicked. The anchors at her lower legs released. All except the bands around her ankles. A few more frantic clicks, the mechanism buzzing as though trying to respond, to no end result. A quick glance to try and diagnose the issue within the few seconds she had left showed the syncing pin in the left anchor bent. That shot had done more damage than she thought originally. Only one thing was left to do now.

There was a brief moment of free-fall as she took her hands off the controls to cover her head with her arms, preparing for the inevitable impact with the ground. It came sooner than expected, a dull thud with the creak of metal as the saddle-piece took the weight of the dragon's head. If it hadn't been for the framework surrounding her, she might have been crushed in full. All she could register besides a muddled ringing in her ears was a distinct sharp pressure were the anchors still held. A second cracking alerted her to the supports attaching the seat of the saddle-piece to the base of the dragon's skull starting to snap loose, the continued weight starting to sheer the bolts.

There was a moment of stunned silence, Derryus relaxing a bit before the shock wore off. He let off a squeal of distaste, wriggling about to try and dislodge himself from the ground. The action jerked his rider about, tossed and dragged violently, rattling her ability to rationalize. With a ripping noise, the supports pulled away from the dirt, tearing tangled grass roots with it. Clawing at anything in range for purchase, she could feel something else less pleasant. As the leg supports were pulled up, there was a pain around where the ankle anchors had been dug in, an ambient grinding pain what lingered, lessened only by the amount of adrenaline still pumping through her veins. Rationality was slowly returning to her, the remembrance of a support bar within reach fueling her to try and grab a hold of it.

Derryus moved, rolling forward first in an attempt to curl enough to roll to one side. The support bar moved away from her, repeated disapproval uttered in a frantic attempt to grasp it. She might have told him to hold for half a second until she had a grip on the bar if she had been in her right mind, but after being shaken, her thoughts had muddled. She was regretting it now, the little Sonic snapping his head forward quickly to assume a position to roll upright.

The quick lashing movement was the catalyst; if she hadn't been sure her ankles were at least fractured, she was sure with that distinct and wet snapping noise similar to breaking fresh greenwood that they were now. As if to prove it to her, the pain that shot up her legs was more than ambient throbbing and straight into sheer burning agony, though it did come with a positive point. The bent synchronizing pin had received enough force that the metal snapped in two, effectively springing out of the hinge and allowing the ankle clasps to finally open. She slid from the seat, landed on her feet, and immediately crumpled with a loud yelp as her ankles actively shifted in their booted confines and brought her down with a painful reminder that they were rendered useless. It was all she could do to let herself lay on the turf, frustrated and whimpering, trying to hold in tears threatening to fall.

Derryus had managed his way to stand again, the saddle-seat hanging precariously from only two bolts on one side, limping with favor to his back right leg to stand over her, a nudge given to her side perhaps in hope that she might stand up and take her seat again. Whether he could sense her inability to move or not in the few moments that followed, he raised his head upward to scan the Hunters who were now closing in. Even with one down and unable to fight, there were still eleven more to contend with, far too many for a single dragon, a Sonic runt at that, to handle on his own. That left one option open.

He hobbled forward, doing his best to look intimidating. Almost immediately, the pack took a simultaneous step back despite their riders' hissed protests. It started with a grumbling growl, though raised with little warning to that same roar he had issued earlier on his approach. At such close proximity, the sound was loud enough to cause return screeching and force both human and dragon to decide on retreating. With the Hunters a safe distance away, his verbal assault stopped. It wouldn't buy them a lot of time, but just enough for him to run by and quickly mag his injured rider to the ruined saddle-piece, pleased to feel her fingers wrap about the support bar she had so desperately sought earlier.

He needed no prompt on where to go, taking control to remember the way the others had gone. The soreness of being rammed was easing away the more he moved and very soon, he was able to run smooth enough to cover some ground. A small chirping noise left him as he felt a brush of familiar fingers across an eye ridge, their own physical language and one of praises. Passed the point they had split from their party, his injured leg seized and with a whimpering yelp lost his stride. A stumble was inevitable, a fall shortly afterward. It took some time to push himself back up, using a bit of crumbling wall at the side of the road to aid his bracing, both he and his rider noticing the steady return of the pack.

"At zis point, 'relentless' ist an understatement..." Fae muttered, hands tightening on the bar. Derryus started to growl again, silencing as soon as one hand touched his head. "Don't vorry about it now. Duty's done."

Surrender was not a normal thing to hear, a concerned churr leaving the little Sonic, but he did lower his head downward. Eyes closed, waiting for the onslaught, the sound of their pursuers growing closer.

The sound of an exhale, rattling of smaller debris nearby.

"I'd be not breathin' t'is in if'n I was you."

Fae's eyes snapped back open, looking up toward that familiar voice. Grinning skull-face was smiling down on her from on top of the ruined wall, a lazy cloud of pale yellow wafting toward the incoming pack. Though it had faded in color before it reached the eleven Hunters, the effects of the ever-drifting drug were obvious in all of them and their dragons. Glazed drowsy eyes, slacked jaws. The advancement slowed gradually to an easy stop, Oryon waving a hand at his companions to get behind the wall as he carefully descended and made his way toward the pack.

"I'll handle t'is, you guys get t'cover. Look like y'need a rest."

Even with slight encouragement from his rider, Derryus did not need to be told twice what needed to be done, limping more prominently out of sight. Oberryn was a small ways away, waving at them to follow his direction. It took longer than necessary to reach him, Oryon already on his way back before the wounded pair were lead beneath an outcropping made by a wall falling inward across two others as an impromptu roof on a small alcove. Evlynn and A'styee were sitting in a corner with Iishta lying near them, G'lgumyish resting standing up, as Bulls were wont to do. Evlynn still had a hold of the War Engine, though she was a bit more responsive to those around her. This was a good sign.

"Did you take care of it?" Oberryn was asking his shorter companion, to which he received a shrug.

"Took care of it, a'ight. Sent 'em all home. They'll b'gettin' in the door 'fore the powder wears off." Oryon answered. "We should b'safe here for now, but we can't b'stayin' for _too_ long, 'fore they return 'n' start scourin'." Peridot-green gaze shifted then, looking up at Fae on her mangled seat. "Y'should come down from there 'n' rest, y'know."

Oberryn had turned his attention now toward her, questioningly, before she answered. "I ... I can't." There was a pause before her voice lowered, looking down at confused looks from both the men in the party. "I t'ink ... I t'ink somet'ing crucial ist broken."

Eyes darted briefly toward her ankles, balanced precariously on the bent foot-pedals. It took only a second, a shift from ever-concerned Derryus to try and lower her slowly into Oberryn's arms. A small blur through a haze of rediscovered pain as Oryon fretted about how he didn't have anything for setting broken delicate joints like this. She was set down, leaning against Derryus once he had settled, to allow Oryon access to her injuries. As he worked, trying to align and set the snapped joints for ease of transport, she caught sight of movement in the nearest corner, Evlynn having risen to stand and make her way unsteadily toward her. Abyssal gaze shifted to look at the other, taken by surprise at the watery film in her friend's silvery eyes.

There was a moment of silence before Evlynn spoke again, quiet and broken. "_Mne ochen zhal_..."

An apology, spoken in the tongues of her ancestors. Usually, it was difficult to tell if Evlynn felt what she said, but this time, there was no doubt. She immediately began to weep openly, pocked with stuttered apologies that no amount of attempted consoling could quell for her. It took four hours before she could properly dry her eyes.

It was the last show of open emotion her three companions would see of her ever again.


	2. Delivery

"I'm rather surprised that one as talented as you is reduced to tasks of the mundane."

It's not the first time she's heard that, to be honest. Since she started this business about fourteen years prior, her work day now seems almost incomplete without hearing it at least once. Perhaps a little more surprised here, considering that this _is_ Word Paynn.

Perhaps a little more on edge, too. They say when he wants something, he turns to flattery. Not that she'll outwardly show that twinge of nervousness, mind. Just something to remember, and a reminder to keep a general eye on him.

"Like I hafn't heard zat before." she quips with all the vocal emotion of a pile of roadkill. The small digital pad is flicked through, the necessary contract found for new clientele to fill and sign, and the pad and stylus offered toward him cordially. He had filled it out some time earlier, she just needs this last bit. "Sign here, please."

He seems more content at the moment to continue entertaining his previous notion, humming in mild contemplation as he toys with something on a smaller monitor in his vast array. "The way you handle that little dragon of yours, I'm honestly shocked I've never seen you on the racing circuit. Have you ever considered it?"

"Racing vas not our sport. Ours is more fine-tuned." The response is still relayed with the same amount of apathy as before, trying to remain professionally polite.

If she lands this contract, her salary will jump considerably. Paynn Incorporated packages are usually … sensitive, and that adds a few extra fees. Nothing too expensive in terms of _his_ pocketbook, but a substantial jump in her _own_ paycheck.

A tap of the stylus on the pad frame is made to catch his attention. "Sign _here_, please."

He seems preoccupied with this rambling he's gotten himself on and by now, clenching her jaw seems all she can do to keep from walking out on this. She has to remind herself that this is a good enough contract to sit through this, though she's slowly losing her patience to his third-degree.

"Not a racer? I certainly don't hear that one every day." He turns to face her finally, genuine curiosity lighting his aging features. "If it's not prying, may I ask what your sport _is_?"

Stunned silence as she takes _that_ in. For all of the 'you're so talented are you a racer' she's so used to, it's been a long while since someone asked what it is she actually does … or rather, _did_. She can certainly answer that, voice lower in volume.

"Dressage."

"And you're still prominent in it?"

"Not anymore. Not since ze accident." She takes a half-step back, purposefully clicking the heel support of the brace wrapped around her lower leg to keep her ankle perfectly straight. To divert most of her weight off the joint to prevent further damage and debilitating pain. "Hard to forget all ze control of ze art ven it vas a staple of both your childhoods…"

It's his turn be stunned into an embarrassed silence at this revelation, eyes tracing the construction wrapped around her legs. They are effective and unobtrusive, but it's obvious she'll never dance again like that.

"I … apologize, I was unaware the conditions…"

His own quieting causes her to draw herself back to the present with the disgruntled realization that this man managed to sweep her away with him into a tangent she hadn't meant to be a part of from the start. The conversation thus far has left her a little miffed at the remembrance that her career is over and she is tied to the mundane world outside a cheering stadium. At least this is something she knows she can do, and well.

Which reminds her of the tablet she's been holding out to him for the better part of five minutes now.

"It happens. Ve vere at ze top of ze rosters for little over a decade. But zat ist in ze past und zis ist ze present. Now please. Sign here."

He makes the move of opening his mouth, his hands remain close to him. Professionalism is thrown out the window at this point. She has grown impatient, layered on top of that bitterness dredged up from being reminded of a number of things. Before he has a chance to utter a single noise, she is already on top of it, lips drawing long and thin in annoyance.

"Sign ze feking papervork _please_. You are not mein only client today."

Brief silence, a hurried apology out of him as he takes hold of the stylus, quick glance over the terms written across the pad before scrawling a signature where indicated. The minute anger welling up of before is easing away, she feels the relax as she expresses her thanks and changes the form to one of confirmation of pick-up.

"For my records, in case somet'ing goes wrong. Sign und date here. You can put a timestamp, if you like."

"Does that happen often?"

His voice has evened out, gone from giddy excitement to something more properly befitting his position, if a bit cautious to her own expression of concern. Still, he signs and dates, checks and places the time at the end, and hands the stylus back.

"Only happened twice in ze last five years. Ze packages vere received und lost after, und only ze records proved it vasn't mein fault."

"How unfortunate…"

A pluck of the stylus out of his fingers and slid into its place, the tablet frame collapsed and stowed away. He hands her the package in question, she confirms his request for a receipt of delivery confirmation, he responds in positive.

A nod of her head, the helmet picked up from where she left it on entry. "Vell, some people are just desperate to put ze blame on ot'ers. _Auf viedersehn_. I hope to do business vit' you again."

She catches a mumbled farewell from him, settling the helmet to her head as she exits the towering Citadel. Derryus is waiting for her outside, the little Sonic staying laid down so that she has access to the storage pod just behind his shoulders. He offers a questioning chirp to her as she loads and sets the padding anchors.

"_Es tut mir leid_. He's more of an old man zan everyone seems to make him out to be. Kept asking about our previous sporting history."

A low chittering is given in response.

"It vouldn't haf been so bad if he hadn't gotten so caught up in it, he neglected everyt'ing else. Like ze _papervork_."

The pod is clicked and locked shut. She can hear the scanner inside already running to relay the address to her saddle's dashboard. Derryus rises and stretches himself out to limber up properly before magging her into her position. The braces click onto the foot pedals, settled and ready to go. She turns on the dash's GPS system and it gives her detailed coordinates to their destination.

"Looks like Down City. Straight down about a hundred-fifty levels. You ready?"

Derryus strikes a proper stance for a dragon of his training and lets out a rolling chirp of confirmation. She feels everything in him fire instantaneously, sending himself rocketing forward and over the edge of the road, straight down as they've done many times before.

* * *

**A/N**: Kinda wanted to do a pre-pairing thing. A first face-to-face meeting, persay.  
To be honest, I headcanon Word as being a bit chatty when he finds something of particular interest… like dragon sports that aren't racing or dragball...


	3. Fearless

Layers upon layers of haphazardly balanced spires, connected by paths suspended and floating as though painted by a surrealist's inner landscape. Roads twisting and spiraling, constantly clogged with poor souls driven in irritable depression from the daily grind. A moment's sway against anchoring cables, cords and supports, ignored in thinking it a gust of wind.

If any glance up, there is proof that not all roads are conventional construction; some make their own path.

Blaze of sleek dragon the color of faded blue with a tint of green, turquoise-tinted with accents in metal of white, red, and green. Rider resting behind its head, slender and sleek, clad in darkest matte with swiveling head, turret gaze constantly alert, aiming always for next landing.

Target missed, claws scramble for purchase, gloved hands removed from controls to remove interference and allow animal instinct to take over. Bunch of corded muscles, steel sinewy grasp anchoring properly with avoidance of looking down; falling now would be the end of the duet.

Obstacle crested, dragon standing where it should have landed, catching its breath with lazy tail-twitches. Touches across eye crests given from its partner, quiet asks if it is well. After a few more breaths, it huffs in response, running along its landing ledge for the next point.

Split-second planning and thought, on the move, reaching the end of the path with new targets in mind to reach. Coil in, spring forward, digging hind-claws in for traction. There is but air between them and nothing. A dangerous risk, dragons not meant to fly in full.

Its head pulls back, register of still considerable distance between it and its desired landing pad. The sound of Gear activating, metal wings to take the place of once-assumed organic, blast of energy to propel, close the necessary space to safety before retracting. It hits the ground running, aiming for its next point of take-off.

Process repeats, movement in sync completely with partner, cues given between verbal recognition and memorized physical maneuvers. Bounce from one point to the next, slither across this bit of road to scale buildings with little effort.

Quick break, to catch the breath, regain bearings on position, destination located but yet to come. Click of the footrests on the seat-piece, rider dismounting with energy-assisted help to check on the contents of a small armored black pack, settled on the shoulders. Package deemed safe, remount, click back in, and ready for round two.

Dragons weren't meant to fly, but in this business, they will learn.

* * *

**A/N**: More random thoughts and derps, put into yet another short one-shot. Some of what War's typical work day entails.


	4. Showjumper

Thunder. The sound of distant thunder.

It's muffled in her ears, though she can almost feel it rumbling through the track itself. She doesn't have to guide the dragon, the sleek beast running beneath her knows the way. It's the same track as last week, and the week before. Why they won't let her and her blue companion use the track between races, she'll never know. She'll call them stingy bastards, in the meantime, and just let the dragon run.

It's mostly greenhorns, so it isn't too hard to keep ahead. Someone said last week that she should consider actually racing, competing. She laughed, with her eyes. Her face betrays nothing.

"I'm not in dhis for dhe racing."

She isn't, either; jumping tracks are expensive. It isn't that she can't afford it in monetary value. They are expensive in space, and the small chunk of land she shares with her family is not big enough to house one comfortably. This is as close as she can get and they won't let her rent the space in between races to let her sleek partner use it to her extent in peace.

They tell her to progress, never once considering her steed was never meant to race, the mare more content to run.  
And jump.

Someone passing on the right, the Nautilus beneath her moving slightly to the left to give berth on her own. The next corner is where everyone fouls up. Except, of course, hers.

It helps that she's been running this track since she discovered its existence, two years prior. She and her draconic partner could take this in their sleep. Two more around, disappearing around the corner. A crash heard, splintering wood and clinking metal, angered roars of dragons undoubtedly tangled.

The dragon beneath her takes the cue, lowering head to body level, adding power and speed to each stride. Small pile of the two racers what passed before, trying to disengage their dragons from each other and the obstacles placed in order to test agility. She lowers close to her dragon's head, trying to give as little resistance as possible. They aren't aiming for around the mess.

There is a bunch, a quivering tension of muscles across the little Nautilus. Hind claws anchor enough to properly position body, letting go and expelling energy into the leap. She clears the mess easily, body straight like a board and head pulling back as front feet aim for the track on the other side of the obstacles. One fluid motion, feet touching down and digging claws in long enough to stick the landing and bunch in again.

Where the others avoid, she aims, excitement beginning to take her over. The last quarter of this track is prime estate for a showjumper, agile enough to slip between racers and still keep speed enough to leap over gates and hurdles, elegant as she barely clears the tops. The final set pulls a joyous noise from her chest and throat, a squeal of delight to mirror the distinct grin on her usually apprehensive muzzle that captures attention in the younger crowds almost immediately.

She finishes second this race, but placing was never her want or need. She was trained to jump, and jumping is what she takes home with her, tail swishing in content as she and her partner head back to continue the days' work.

They'll be back next week to do much the same.

* * *

**A/N**: Ever since a headcanon from a friend of mine that outlying communities might have equestrian-style games and sports for dragons, we decided to add that in for this set's dragons.

Derryus is trained in Dressage Reigning.  
Iishta is Dressage.  
G'lgumyish is a Draft-puller [no surprise there].  
A'styee is a showjumper, including freestyle jumping.

Decided to take this opportunity to just … write that. So have a microdrabble on A'styee getting the pent energy out of her system.


	5. Warmachine Overdrive

The child's coffin that had hidden the thing for so long lay broken to one side, the lid wrenched off with reckless abandon and the main casket's old wooden fibers shredded from the sealing nails. With it affixed properly across her lower arm, the ignition was clicked, the braces tightened and the engine within started with a low purring whine. The torque of it made her arm jump a little, though she kept her eyes focused on the hunters what were slowly closing in, standing between Derryus and their pursuers; somewhere in the back of her mind, a tickling thought of how much using it was going to hurt played, a nag that was pushed down for the moment.

"Vort' it…." More a reassurance to herself, really.

One of them chuckled at the sight of the gauntlet on her arm. "I'm willing to lay odds you have no idea how to work that thing." His head lofted, self-satisfied in what he assumed was a call on her bluff.

Eyes never strayed, staying still on him now, voice surprisingly flat in her anger. "I've had it almost fifteen years. Vat makes you t'ink I haven't used it at least once." The fall of her adversary's face told her the counter worked, even a little.

A little tune in one ear, incoming call. Head tilted to one side, answering it. Death sounded a mix of scared and angry. "Where _are_ ya!?" A pause before he added, "I can 'ear it. You've it out, you started it, didn't you! Put it back 'n' run!"

"No choice. Last resort, if I do zat now, it'll be taken back." The light on the outside plate lit up, glowing a pale grey-white. Two steps forward.

"_Non_, you put it back _now_!" His voice was stuttering, cracked. It sounded like he was almost on the verge of tears, whether in upset or anger, she couldn't read without seeing his face; Death always had the more expressive features. "Dontchou _dare_ make me get Paynn on this line, I hate callin' 'im!"

Wielding arm was pulled back, the top piston-rods shooting back and expanding claw-like antennae out to hover over her spine. The light turned turquoise, the engine stuttered and shifted, steps quickening to a slow run. The hunters in seeing the gauntlet turned fully active started backing off, backing up dragons and trying to retreat in a tangled cluster.

"Gute." It came out more of a purr, she was vaguely aware of Derryus absconding quickly from his place to find safer ground. "Maybe zen he'll understand ze art of var."

_Stop, punch the gauntlet down, extend forward pistons…_

The braces screeched across the road as she stopped moving, a brief skid before coming to rest, arm swung forward and down so the knuckle plate embedded itself into the surface. The forward rods were shot into the ground, extending a set of smaller rods that anchored them into it for stability and grounding.

_Pull the trigger._

Pointer finger pulled back on the button necessary, back pistons slammed down into the gauntlet, a spiderweb of cracks from the flash-damage crawling from the contact point. With a loud shriek of metal-on-metal and a jolt of energy she felt coursing from her through the grounding-rods, the cracks blazed the same color as the little bulb on the engine-casing.

Turquoise light shot upward, the road buckling and shooting upward violently in spiraling rows, the anchors ripped from the ground with the force of the recoil. She was keenly aware of her shoulder wrenched back further than it should have been, popping and tearing in the joint and dragging a small cry out of her at it as the road beneath her gave way, sending her plummeting below with Death's panicked voice in her ear breaking and stuttering into non-existence, replaced by static.

* * *

**A/N**: Posting these here, by popular demand. I really don't know what else to say, so ... enjoy!

Dragon Booster and all affiliated is Nerd Corps and The Story Hat  
OCs involved are mine, unless otherwise stated with their drabbles


	6. Warmachine Aftermath

_Pain._

It was the searing agony in her left shoulder that finally roused her, combined with a pounding headache. The latter was probably from the energy drain, in many ways like dehydration.

She moved, shifted, put weight on her left arm, and immediately buckled back down with a cry against the pain that shot through her left shoulder and attached arm. Blurred vision finally started sharpening, enough to get her bearings visually again. The gauntlet was still attached to her arm, the mechanical prototype weapon heavy and useless now. The engine within the plating had stopped running and from the feel of it, had been dead for some time.

Recognition to the seat she was precariously balanced on; the saddle-piece that rested behind Derryus' head. Though she had been deposited there haphazardly and likely by the dragon, his panic was justified. There had been a ridiculous amount of property damage involved with the use of the gauntlet, she had been rendered unconscious by a combination of the pain her dislocated shoulder had given her and the substantial drain of energy taken from the device. Derryus had obviously gone after her to keep her from falling into the depths of the city with the debris of the road and abscond with her as far from the damage as possible.

Where he had stopped, she hadn't any idea; none of the scenery looked familiar to her in the least. It wasn't necessarily hard to do; Dragon City was immense as it was tall and it would take years to see all of it in detail. For now, she could only take stock in her current environment, memorize all routes into and out of the hole-in-the-wall the little Sonic dragon had brought her.

First thoughts of action were to remove the gauntlet, get it off her arm to prevent it causing any more damage than it already had. She was in this bind because of the thing. Gloved fingers of her right hand fumbled a bit with the bracings and anchors, fatigue clouding her movements. With a smoking **thud!**, it finally came loose, sliding off her arm with ease and falling from the seat to the ground.

The sound roused a noise from Derryus' throat, the little dragon concerned for her upon waking proper. Right hand reached over carefully, trying not to upset the careful positioning of her left arm, rubbing one of the dragon's eye ridges in an attempt to assure him. A chirping noise sounded from him, questioning, tail twitching from the base of its fin forward in content and relief.

Gaze was drawn to the dash in front of her, a small bulb above a single yellow button in the top right dead. Button was pushed, a half second before the bulb started blinking, first unevenly before holding a steady rhythm. From there, all she had to do was wait; Famine would pick up on the electronic tracker and dictate her position to anyone in the vicinity.

She was vaguely aware of Derryus mag-ing her from the seat to rest against him more comfortably, the Sonic curling around her with a protective rumble. Snapshots of events were happening, possibly caused by inconsistent drifting from consciousness.

Rubbing Derryus' crests slowly, tiredly. Low ambiance of pulsing pain in her shoulder, dulling almost into nothing. She would have to get that reset soon, or it would heal improperly. Echoed clicking to the beat of composed if hurried footsteps, the dragon lifting his head with a low growl in the direction of the noise.

"Shush, you. If I were going to hurt her, it would have been done by now."

There was an indignant huff from the dragon, relax of the tail to allow the newcomer passage. A small grunt of effort, Derryus snarling with an agitated thumping of his tail, a click, and her eyes opened again with a faint displacement of the air around her.

It looked at first like orange feathers, trailing vibrancy against the hazy dull-colored background. It was like a movie, badly kept and continually skipping. He knelt in front of her, the world catching up as soon as she felt the distinct claws of his right hand brush away ebon tresses pulled loose from the ordeal. His lips were drawn thin in what she could construe as a poor attempt to hide worry, and in the faint light playing over him, he looked closer to his age in that moment.

Silence reigned for what felt eternity, a sharp inhale before he broke it. "You've managed to worry everyone with that little stunt."

It sounded almost like his voice was quivering, just faintly in the undertone. Some niggling feeling in the back of her head, a point of rationality in the fatigue, told her it was just her hearing coming back from being so close to the explosion what put her here now.

"News crews have already starting picking up on it. You're lucky you could get out of there in the time you did."

No, no. That was definitely his voice; it didn't lessen or change in the time her hearing had started equalizing again. Scolding was his way of keeping himself under control. Such an interesting development…

"_Es__ … __es tut mir leid_. But … but if I hadn't, ze hunters vould haf taken it…" She had finally managed to sound her voice, a stutter and pause here and there while it scratched back into life. Thinking on speech, both receiving and giving, helped keep her mind awake and sharp.

"You could have been _killed_." He hadn't answered immediately, but when it finally came forward, she heard a crack against the emphasis. He tried to hide it with a low hiss over the top of it, but she had unmistakably picked up on it even in the haze of fatigue.

"…I'll take mein chances vit' 'could', rat'er zan 'vould'."

More silence, the throb in her head returning briefly in those moments to remind her that it still existed. A wince, an attempt to settle back as the light -faint though it was- brightened intensely in that moment, eyes closing to shut it out. It drew something out of him then, something considerably more pressing.

"We have to get you out of here." Composure had returned, recognizing the continued risk to staying where they were. "Can you walk?"

It took effort to think and sound the words properly for him. It sounded irrelevant to the question, but she left it vague and open-ended, knowing he could pick up on what she meant by it. "I can barely see…"

As expected, he understood it, small huff of an exhale before he reached forward and attempted to situate her lanky frame to better lift her. It was cautious goings, taking care after an accidental bump to her injured shoulder caused a gasping whimper. Derryus let loose a growling puff of air at him for it, pushing his nose against Word's back to do it and sending hair flying.

All it managed to achieve was a cold glare in the dragon's direction. "Was that necessary?"

A shake of the head, whether relevant to the understanding of the question or not, before the dragon rose to stand. A clattering thud drew his attention back to the gauntlet, having been bumped in the creature's movement. Carefully, he bent to pick it up, keeping the mechanical weapon locked tight and safe in his jaws.

The world was a blur of light and noise upon exit from the hovel Derryus had taken as a temporary bunker, gentle swaying rock of Word's practiced swift stride. He was muttering something about appointments to keep, how any remaining of the hunting parties would be monitoring hospitals, that they had to be fast to get to someone to reset her shoulder, and a number of other grumblings that meshed together into a mush of sound rattling through his chest. It took an extra push to respond back, delayed now when he had settled and gone quiet.

"You … you veren't going to … to leave me at a hospital, vere you…?"

"Absolutely not." came the instantaneous reply, indignant and frazzled as though appalled she would even think that. "I will be _right here_." Another gentle brush of the prosthetic claws against one of the courier's dirt-smeared cheeks. Whether in reassurances for her or for him, she couldn't tell any more.

Sight had become nauseatingly unbearable again, the sudden tilt and swirl forcing her to close her eyes against it. The act brought on her old friend, exhaustion, and slowly, she let it overtake her, warmed by the radiant heat emitted by her companion.

"I'm not going anywhere…"

There was an inflection in the last phrase she heard echoing out of him, a vocal nuance that hid beneath the calm tones of reassurances: _malice._

* * *

**A/N**: A successor to the opening piece of this compilation; _Warmachine Overdrive._

I was given a prompt on the Tumblr blog that spawned the need and want to write this one.


	7. Ghost-Talker

**A/N**: I don't normally put these things at the beginning, generally saving them for the end. But for this one, I'd like to say it legitimately gave a few readers anxiety and one of them actual nightmares. Proceed with caution.

* * *

The air smelled cleaner than it usually did in the shop. Not the ambiance of stale dirt, but like a fresh rain with a hint of something else.

Iishta had been shooed out of the middle of the salesfloor, much to the dragon's displeasure. To prove how upset it made her, she had instead taken a perch across the sale-counter, watching with a subdued curiosity while her partner worked.

Death had cleared the floor of pots and plants, swept the residual dirt from off the circular sigil painted in the middle of the floor; white ghosts of plain design and big black eyes swirling into a central point. Metal censers were hung from the ceiling around the circle, sprinkling red incense resin into each after smoldering charcoal pellets beneath. Smoke poured off the trays to the floor, cascading in lazy curls around his feet and carrying an aroma of sweet subtly-spiced earth.

He turned around to face the sale-counter, pausing a moment at the dragon splayed across it like a big cat, face scrunching into one of seemingly annoyed thought. As though sensing the mild irritation, Iishta made a show of anchoring herself down by putting one foot on the register and huffing; she wasn't moving from her spot, not for a second time. Her partner put his hands on his hips, lowering peridot-green gaze into hers as though silently disputing her new bed. Instead of throwing up a fuss, however, he simply stared her down for a half minute and after getting a playful grunting growl, reached forward to snatch up a series of four ceramic bowls with clusters of some sort of broad-leafed white-green plant in them.

"Yeah, yeah. Jus' don'be breakin' it t'is time, _wi_?" he sighed, assessing which direction was where and placing the bowls at four points around the painted sigil. His answer was a guttural noise from the dragon on the counter, though it shifted smoothly into a purring noise of inquiry as two pairs of footsteps sounded from the stairs behind the carved door to the greenhouse.

Heads turned, though Iishta was the only one who kept her eyes on the taller figures of War and Plague as they rounded the corner onto the main floor, one after the other. Save for their steps, the pair were noticeably silent and solemn. Death had turned to resume his task, sprinkling salt in a thick line around the circle, from bowl to bowl and following the path laid by the censers above.

"Y'both find summat from our presumed dead?" he asked, setting the bowl of salt in its place at the center of the circle, leaving a small line open.

War gave a small nod of her head, undoing the collar of her jacket and pulling out a chain with a flat metal tag hanging from it, the name of her father engraved into its surface with small details on the person behind the name; an old-fashioned identification tag assigned at birth and naming, a tradition that had been in their community for as long as anyone could remember. They were all supposed to wear theirs, but frankly no one in the full Quartet thought it necessary any longer. Their birth names were unneeded, their monikers what defined them now.

The chain was pulled over her head, the full ensemble dropped into Death's waiting palm, peridot gaze directed toward the taller Plague. The monolith dropped a delicate ring into the offered hand, Death nodding before retreating to the middle of the circle of salt, handing the bowl of excess to Plague, who took it.

"Y'know the drill." the shorter started. "Stay outside the circle, no matter what. When you gotcher answers, light the sage. Try t'keep our session wit'in fifteen, less is better…"

There were mirrored nods, slow with a visible twitch of worry.

"Y'sure you wanna do t'is? Sometimes, uncertainty is bett—"

"I vould rat'er know." War interjected, drawing lips thin before looking up toward Plague. "Ve're ze only ones who haf no resolution to our parents' fates. I t'ink it's better to know zan not, especially after…"

Death looked to Plague, expecting him to speak. All he got was a glance toward the shorter woman before a nod. His confirmation received a nod in return.

"Very well then. Close the circle, if y'would."

Plague sprinkled a pinch of the salt he had been handed across the open gap in the circle, effectively closing it as asked.

Death took his position in the center, where the swirling painted ghosts converged to, placing the tag in one hand and the ring in the other. Fingers closed over each, eyes closed, a deep breath drawn in, let out. The smoke from the censers continued to swirl in lethargic twists and coils to the floor, filling the room further with the sweet earthy scent. All eyes were focused on the little witchman, attention centered on him. None noticed the design carved into the greenhouse door begin to glow. The air gradually heated, a slow incline alongside the slow drawing of light in the door.

Death loosed another exhale, ragged with visible warping of the air around his mouth. The greenhouse door flew open with a bang against the wall, causing Plague and Iishta to jump at it and War to yelp. Before they could look toward it, the energy in the air shifted, the temperature raising suddenly to uncomfortable levels and the smoke pulling inward and twisting up in reverse around the host.

Death had changed within those few seconds between the greenhouse opening and the heat. His arms and part of his face had turned darker than his usual in clouded splotches, a faint glow emanating from the back of his open panting mouth across heat-warped breath. An audible inhale like a fire sucking air, his eyes snapped open, blazing white-hot instead of the usual peridot green. Gaze darted between the other two humans on the other side of the salt line, watching them both pull back out of range from the border. It caused a broad grin to cross his face at it.

"I's been a _while_, chil'uns…" The voice was deeper than expected with a distinct crackling behind it, rising from his throat where the glow originated like a devouring inferno.

War lowered her gaze at him, drawing her arms across her chest. "Allo, Bapteesta. Not quite long enough."

The ghost's face fell a moment. "Tha's not how y'greet people. Common courtesy'll getcha places quicker, y'know."

"Tell dhat to Famine." Plague started, low growl on his voice. The last encounter with Bapteesta had ended rather poorly for the platinum-haired mechanic and had admittedly left Plague more or less shaken by the ordeal.

War shook her head discreetly, mouthed to him '_Keep it short_' before turning her attention back on the possessed witchman in his circle of salt. "Ve haf a couple questions for you, as a last resort."

A few steps were taken toward the barrier, white eyes regarding the ebon-maned woman with a devilish knowing glint. "Last resort, y'say. I could easily ask for summat in return, y'know…"

"Vat 'return'. After ze last time, _you_ owe _us_. Zis ist not a grant of freedom on your terms, zis ist payment." she hissed.

Bapteesta withdrew, offering a hiss in response, though it rattled in his throat and added something more sinister to the noise. "Fine. Have it your way. Whaddya want." he croaked after a moment of consideration.

"I vant to know if mein fat'er ist passed over…" she started.

"…And my Mama." Plague finished after calming himself from the last exchange.

The ghost stared down at his hands, uncurled the fingers from around the tag and the ring. "Lookin' for your parents, _wi_? Why can't it be summat more interestin'…" A flash of heightened heat, the distinct smell of burning paint and salt mixing with the dragon's blood still smoldering in the censers. Both the ring and the tag began to melt, searing metal burning into the host's palms. "Never thought I'd b'lookin' for Khatariinka 'n' t'at bastard Vaega, though…"

He looked back up in time to see War and Plague exchange a worried glance, no doubt over the inevitable scarring to Death that would happen from the molten metal. "Dontcha worry now; he won't b'marred for long." he laughed, low. "Though, if y'want, you could take 'em both from me. Save his li'l hands…"

The recognition drew attention back to the possessed in the center of the circle. Plague's face had twisted now into an expression of more prominent worry. War's, on the other hand, grew more severe as she lowered her abyssal gaze on the considerably shorter spectre.

Her own voice was little more than a hiss of annoyance. "You're stalling. I know zis doesn't take you half as long as it's been already. Get to it."

Lips turned up in a bit of a sneer, hands turning sideways to let the fully melted metal pool onto the floor at his feet. "Fine. They're not here."

"Are you sure?" Plague asked, though there was a subtle crack in his voice; obviously, facing the malevolent ghost took a lot more out of him that he was not trying to admit.

"Yeh, I'm sure." The wide grin split his son's controlled face again, the eyes blazing. There was a visible cracking along the corners of the witchman's mouth, a familiar glow starting to peak through otherwise charcoal skin while his attention turned to Plague. "Would I _lie_ to you?"

War visibly bristled at the taunt, though it was surprisingly her taller companion who answered. "Da. And now dhat I have my answer, I banish you back to your residence behind your seal."

There was a noticeable change in Bapteesta's demeanour at the threat, the grin falling to an outright snarl. "I'd like t'see you try, boy…"

In a show of rebellious force, the temperature raised further. The first two lines of salt on the inside of the circle border turned dark brown, then black, the edges of the bowls with the sage in them beginning to crisp. The air was heavy with heat, though as soon as one of the sage bundles caught fire on its own, it cooled drastically in an attempt to put it out. With a complete line of salt still protecting the bowl, the ghost could not reach over to stop it and the aromatic leaf bundle continued to smolder, wafting its trademark white smoke.

War had been prepared prior, pulling out a pair of small hand-held lighters, tossing one to Plague before Bapteesta had a chance to charge another flash in his attempt to burn the salt away. He had devolved into little more than a screaming spectre once he realized the threat was no longer a verbal promise but an actual action against him, trying to follow one and then the other from within his prison like a rabid animal. Iishta roared, having jumped off the countertop to pace back and forth in front of it in time with the spirit. Even though the dealings put her at intense unease, she knew better than to get closer and rather vocalized her distaste from a fair distance.

With one bundle already lit, it did not take long to light the second, and the third. The heat returned to almost unbearable levels by the time the pair had converged on the fourth, left gasping and lethargic in such close proximity. The world warped visibly, another line of salt crisping … and the final bundle of sage followed the direction of the first and caught fire on its own. The air sucked inward, toward the ghost, and the smoke went with it.

In the searing inhospitable conditions of the room, sound had muffled to little more than a dull ringing. Plague had fallen flat to the floor, War staying any semblance of upright out of sheer force of will. She met the ghost's gaze only once, saw the flaking skin off the host's cheeks to reveal ebbing embers.

Then there was silence.

Not even the ringing, just a moment of silence. It felt like hours. It was broken by a cough from Bapteesta, a pause followed by hacking made worse with every breath taken in. The temperature started dropping in the room again, the spirit shrieking something in a different tongue altogether from even his odd Creole dialects before his host collapsed.

A sparking noise sounded, Iishta issuing in new noise with a low threatening growl. Wind blew through the room, unusual as there were no windows or doors open at the time, carrying mingling smoke from incense and sage through the room, sucking back through the greenhouse door. Something slammed it shut behind the retreating cloud, the design carved into its face lessening the glow from before, a sizzling puff of smoke rising once the door resumed its original facade. It could not hide the distinct sound of tools being thrown around the greenhouse, however, proof that the spirit was angered by another failed attempt at complete possession.

The temperature in the room dropped closer to normal. The sage had stopped smoking, the incense still trickling out of its metal containers.

Death lay in the middle of the circle, asleep. He wouldn't wake for a few hours yet. Iishta was agitated to the point that she was pacing around and over the counter, growling occasionally at the greenhouse door when a particularly loud clatter sounded.

Able to breathe without hindrance once more, Plague and War had dragged themselves together, sitting back-to-back in order to keep one another sitting upright. Both sported a distinct reddish tint to their skin, panting and sweating from the ordeal. It took some time before either could speak properly.

"I'm relieved zat zey're not dead yet." War started, hoarsely. "But ve really need a new spirit guide…"

Plague was quiet for a moment, though his response was a croaking chuckle of agreement.


	8. Beautiful Disaster

He calls her his _beautiful disaster._

Beast born of ink and ruin, bent on tearing walls down brick by brick, ripping with no remorse into his own private cathedral. A beast so unintentionally close it cannot be dispelled with voice or sword, splintering supports and proud spires on its advance until he is left exposed to its mercy.

And yet, in its violence, there is familiar comfort. A warmth felt thrumming in crumbling foundations, humming unsung melodies that reverberate the breast and put all unease to rest.

For all its devastation, all he sees is beauty.  
For all the destruction, there is a surreal allure.

In it, exchanges in revelry, clouds on a night sky shimmering in silver on bituminous canvas against silken touches. Feverish breath mingling, caressing across intertwining of melding of heated flesh, consumed in passionate fires demanding stoking in graceful arches and pleasant vices. Velveteen soft, wanting gasps made in music, tantalizing to the ears among taste so sweet to fulfill starving palette. Destructive holocaust to devour, without a care as to why. Simple need, carnal, ember buried and coddled by the ashes of before cultivated, sparked back into raging inferno.

Sinful, insistent. Voracious appetite, dragging all who are tangled in webbing of night with to afford company of the most comforting sort, apex without remorse. Claim to be taken, walls continued to lay in waste in expectant return of the wolf. A change of the guard to feed assertive beast, a swirl of ink, a wreckage refusing to rebuild. The watch comes no longer, leaving him alone, vulnerable. Facing unbridled atrophy, roiling strife. What should be let alone, instinct ignored with a spice of danger in dogmatic risk.

Despite himself, he seeks the destruction of empires before and after, follows the walls she lays to burning ruin.

His defeat, his fall, the one affliction he would relive again and again.  
His calamity.  
His beautiful disaster.

* * *

**A/N**: Written originally to try to get into a canon's head. But this goes to the mun of the Word blog on Tumblr. Because they're awesome, have been awesome, and this is all their fault anyway.


	9. Respite

How many years had it been now? How many years since she had started traversing these halls, changing its layout from an unknown labyrinth housing a reclusive creature to a familiar path and its industrious -if odd- inhabitant.

She had entered through the front doors, passing between foyers of marketing displays. Footfalls echoed with a steady rhythmic clicking, the sound of the braces hitting the floor with that distinctly militaristic march. _Clkclkclk_ down the halls in her progression like an invisible herald of her inevitable arrival. Paths diverted, branching into further chambers and conference halls. She stayed her course, muscle memory playing autopilot and directing her to her destination.

Employee's entrance, well-hidden between two displays deep in the heart of the building, a quick glance around before she slipped through it into another set of passages beyond. The door had already resumed its unassuming shape as an inconspicuous part of the wall behind her as she paused long enough to see it shut before continuing on. Technically, she could have avoided the whole mess if she had gone through one of the back entrances. There was just something about the challenge of remembering the way from the public front made the journey and resulting destination feel more ... satisfying.

It took a split second to remember the mental map she had drawn for herself years ago. Through winding corridors, up spiraling stairs into the upper levels of the Citadel, following every turn dictated by that internal mapping system. Mechanized accuracy, ignoring the few employees moving about with a predetermined hurry in the lower levels. Consciously active thought only resumed when she reached the final stretch, a hallway of impressive length from which branched her destination, the center of the maze.

The office.

Pace did not let up on the last turn, angle barely a shift to change direction across the bridge leading over the open inner workings of the towering construction below, a crisscrossed mesh of walkways and catwalks spiraling into the abyss. Her destination was ahead, the island suspended and centered between all four paths leading to it.

"You could have used the elevator, you know."

As expected, Word had already noticed her arrival, her purposeful trek through his residence likely before she had even set foot inside the front doors. There was something else there in his unconventional greeting; she heard the familiar exhaustion lacing along underneath his voice.

"I like to keep you guessing." she trilled in response, striding with a single fluid motion up the shallow stairs and across the floor. There was no attempt to silence the sound of the braces clicking, now that he knew she was there.

"Indeed, you do." He loosed a low chuckle, tugging at lethargy as he turned away from the console at her approach.

Even if he was expecting it, the embrace of her arms around his shoulders caused a slight start out of him before he wrapped his about her waist. Gloved hands cradled his head at either side, paying careful mind to the positioning of the headpiece. Surprise once more laced his features when that chilly tip of her nose made contact with his own, though it soon relaxed away with a crinkle at the bridge. She took it as permission to continue, giving a quick rub thrice with slight reciprocation from him before pulling away as much as his continued grip at her waist would allow.

His smile was tired, eye contact found between silver and blue. "You are aware I don't have a delivery for you..."

She felt her face fall at that, just a titch. "I'm off-duty. Slow day, I'm not needed." Hands rested on his shoulders, eyes sweeping across his face. "Not everyt'ing ist about vork, you know." she scolded, taking particularly uncomfortable note of the bags slowly darkening beneath his eyes. "Vhen vas ze last time you actually _slept_."

It was a statement, not a question, one that drew a slightly uneasy yet contemplative noise from his throat.

"If you haf to t'ink about it, it's been too long."

"This _needs_ to be done. We go to prototype stages soon."

She huffed, face contorting into something slightly worried. "You von't get it done if you keep vorking yourself into an early grave. If you let it, fatigue vill take over rationality und you vill be left vit' more vork zan necessary."

His lips pursed into a thin line. She knew he hated to be told what to do, but with him looking now like he was risen from the grave already, she had decided this was a moment she had to try. In the end, he would have to do it himself.

"What would you suggest, then?" There it was, that biting undertone through the otherwise drowsing drone of his voice. He was resisting, as best as he could.

"How much more do you haf to go vit' zis?" It was a relevant question, one she knew he would understand the context for, if he was still rational.

"A few of the larger calculations, still. The last few attempts came back inaccurate, so I have to run the string again..."

"How long for each run?"

"I..." A pause, he actually had to stop and think on that one. "I honestly have no idea. Long enough to finish other smaller tasks, I suppose. It's usually complete before I return to it."

Her fingers drummed against his shoulders; she was thinking. "Zan vat ist stopping you from taking a nap vhen you obviously need it."

He regarded her cautiously, head tilting up and slightly to one side. "...I hate when you speak sense."

Low noise of amused contemplation escaped her, hands shifting to carefully rub at the crook between neck and shoulders, tsking lightly at the feel of the tension resisting against her fingers and palms. "Does zat mean you vill actually go to bed? Or do I haf to employ ze ability to put you out myself."

He glared at her, though the effect of it was lessened with the obvious fatigue settled into his face. She could tell in the way his neck muscles had started twitching against her touch now that he was quite well aware of where her thumb tips were hovering. "...You wouldn't dare try that..."

A curl of her lips in one corner, her thumbs following suit just enough to solidify the threat. "_Ich bin Krieg_, I do vat I vant."

The silence that followed was heavy, eye contact held in noiseless battleground. It wasn't until she tilted her head just slightly to one side and quirked a brow that it broke, Word scoffing in the typical way when he knew defeat was imminent.

"Fine." he hissed, pulling away from her and moving for one of the paths off the side of the little island. "But as you are off-duty, you too will have to sleep. I refuse to let you exhaust yourself, and to be frank, you don't look in much better wear, either."

She offered him a reassuring smile, though it was more aimed at the back of his proudly lofted head. "I vill. I just haf to let Death know I von't be in for a vhile."

She knew it was an understandable request. Even if she was off-duty to the public, she still played courier to both Famine and Death as private contractors.

Word slowed his pace, looked over one shoulder. "Very well, I'll expect you in five to ten before I come looking for you."

She gave a nod of acknowledgement, received a small one back before he had left the room. A few moments were given to hear him clicking out of range before she addressed the third party who had been in the room with them, keeping quiet over the communicator in her right ear.

"I certainly hope zat puts your mind at ease." she sighed. "He's a stubborn old bat vhen he's on to somet'ing."

An audible sigh was returned to her, familiar voice following it up. "Thanks. I would have done it, but he has a higher chance of snapping at me when I try. And let's be honest, that would have gotten us nowhere."

"Novhere except a slightly more irritable Vord..." she muttered back before raising to normal speaking volumes again. "I should go follow him before he starts on his vay back."

"Yeah, that'd be good. If I notice anything more in the future, I'll call you."

"Alright. _Auf viedersehn_, try not to get into ... too much trouble."

There was a murmured farewell on the other end before she switched the little device off, striding with her usual practiced purposeful gait the same way Word had disappeared to, following his path exactly to where he had hidden his own private living space.

* * *

**A/N**: I needed more fluff, but slightly less worrying. So let's combine those two, shall we?

Sudden cut-off because otherwise, I'd ramble around the end.


	10. Immolation

**A/N****: **Having a difficult time getting my writing muses in gear, so writing the first thing that popped up.  
Which happened to be Bapteesta acting up and being his usual asshole fire-ghost self.

Sorry for the sleep-loss...

* * *

It grows hot.  
No, hotter.  
Searing.

The air is heavy, suffocating. It almost visibly swirls once eyes snap open at the disturbance. Lungs scream for air, the body compensates to try and cool by soaking clothing and the body within in perspiration, turning bed linens into an uncomfortable confining sea.

Something isn't right.

The world swirls again, ambient dark melting away into blinding chrome and sterile white. He stands there, holding the flaming jug of his own special moonshine mix even though the flames are licking up his arm now. Desperate grin, crooked and uncertain but determined, spreads across a face of charcoal. Dark brown eyes glittering, reflecting gold with the fire in his grasp.

Woman at his feet, dead. An unclean murder, dark red blood spilling and mixing in with platinum locks flown loose in the struggle, staining pale white tiling as it pools further.

_I won' letcha 'ave it! **I won' b'seein' more dead 'cause of it!**_

She almost forgets how he sounded. Usually quiet and counterpointing, his voice is raised to a screaming roar. An unseen catalyst, he turns and throws his inferno at a wall, directly beneath rests stacks of papers and small sticks housing vast information on a digital scale.

Ceramic shatters.  
The fire spreads, following the path and splash of the liquid concoction within.  
There are yells, screams.

He is barking with laughter now, the holocaust consumes where the alcohol soaks, devastating and catching everything it touches. Head cranes back, even as his dreaded mane smoulders and catches, laughter escalating into maniacal cackling.

The flames burn hot.  
Searing.  
Walls turn black, begin to crumble away.  
He is fully consumed now, his shrieking continuing to mingle into his mirth.  
Somewhere passed a wall, before the roof collapses in, a familiar dart of movement; four dragons running for the far wall surrounding the compound.

_Can't breathe..._

Rattling inhale rips away the vision, left with screeching agony-soaked laughter still in her ears.

_Why can't I breathe..._

Familiar surroundings, the room above the apothecary. The same faded ceiling she has seen for ten years now. The blazing spectre in the doorway is not a usual sight.

_I won' letcha 'ave it..._

The voice is croaking, crackling, though no mouth moves on a tall stick-like creature of smeared charcoal with blazing eyes. It repeats, sickly, and she is paralyzed from it.

Crumbling hand reaches forward, clawed fingers demanding something unspoken.  
Step over the threshold, the wood smokes beneath it.  
The sound of a vacuum, air drawn in to feed the starving inferno in its core.  
In the next second, a residual echo of shattering ceramic and the walls catch fire, flames spreading without hindrance.

Linens catch, clambering with searing little fingers up one arm.

**Snap awake**

The room is still familiar. The worn and faded surroundings of her personal space and residence for the last decade. There is no fire, no scarring on the walls, on the bed. On her.

The air is cooler, if a bit stale and tinged with the smell of aging wood. Her lungs draw breath greedily, the bedclothes disheveled and both her and them drenched in chilled sweat.

Swing of her legs off the side of the bed, properly affix the necessary bracing with practiced hand and little more than secondary nature. She needs a bathroom, to clean and compose. Click of metal across the floor, dull across the time-softened wood.

Pause.  
In front of her door, just over the threshold, there is the distinct ashen outline of a foot burnt into the fibers.  
Her heart races again, breath quickens. She knew sleeping nearest the greenhouse was a bad idea, yet she did it anyway.

Skirting carefully around the ghost's reminder, she makes a mental note to consult Death later about a room change.


	11. Burnout

To be honest, it wasn't the fact that he was asleep on the couch that confused her. Word was constantly exhausting himself passed limits that no human being should ever be able to pass, so to find him asleep anywhere wasn't too uncommon.

It was that he was asleep on the loveseat settled against one wall of her room above the apothecary, his usual headpiece resting balanced on the back ridge and that gangly frame of his stretched in what looked like the most uncomfortable positioning across its short seat. Head tilted, a look of contemplation contorting her face before turning about.

Dulled cadence of her braces against the age-softened wood floor was heard, a precursory attempt to tug him gently back into the world of the waking. She looked over her shoulder once she reached the foot of her bed and, seeing that he had not stirred, dropped her helmet on one of the bedposts. It landed in such a way that the noise it made was loud, though without damage to the helmet itself.

It had the desired effect, Word snapping awake with a slight charge to his energy visible in the immediate area around him. As soon as he recognized the woman across the room, he settled back against the couch with little concern, silver eyes glazing over with renewed fatigue at the outburst and the once-prevalent crackle all but dissipated.

"Ah. Yes. Welcome home..." he greeted with a lazed drowse, trailing off with a yawn and seeming to sink further into the fabric of the furniture beneath him.

She leaned on the foot-board of her bed, crossing her arms at her chest before responding. "...Vat are you doing on mein couch?"

He shifted a bit with a muttering grumble, as though disgruntled that she wouldn't let him fall back to sleep. "I'm tired. I thought that much was obvious."

"You're..." She stopped herself, lips drawing thin for a moment of thought on how to properly word her retort. Unfortunately, she could only settle on a slight reiteration of her original observation. "You came all ze vay down here. To sleep on mein couch."

He gave a lazy shrug. "That pretty much sums it up. I really don't see what's so hard to understand."

Her head tilted to one side, one brow quirked. "How far down is it from your Citadel to ze apot'ecary?"

It took a moment for him to think, the processing evident in his face with the faint furrowing of his brow and pronounced wrinkling across his aging face. "About ... forty-seven levels."

"You fought ze urge to sleep long enough to travel forty-seven levels down in order to collapse on mein couch."

Eyes raised, silver to blue. "Yes. I'm half-awake and I can grasp this concept."

A disgruntled sigh left her, hands moving to carefully brace her on the foot-board. "You haf a bed of your own, you know."

His lips pursed in what she took as distaste. "You aren't there to share it."

Her head pulled back sheepishly, reminded of his dislike of sleeping in his own bed alone. "...Fair enough. You do usually fall asleep behind your desk..."

He shrugged again, though he never broke eye contact. "It was somewhat uncomfortable today. I was unable to find a proper position to sleep."

"...So you basically came down here, ready to drop, und fell asleep. On mein couch. Vhich, to be frank, looks less comfortable zan any position behind your desk."

He afforded her a sleepy half-grin, resettling into his spot. "Ah. Now you're getting it."

Her head shook slightly. "No. No I'm really not." The final syllable was counterpointed with a small laugh, an incredulous tone as though she couldn't entirely believe this was a conversation that was happening right at that moment. "Ze only t'ing it really explains is vhy Death vas in a tizzy vhen I got home."

He had gone silent, breaking eye contact to look away. "...I've missed you." It was the apprehension that caused her to quiet as well, allowing him to continue properly. "I've barely seen you in two weeks, you know, save your scheduled pick-ups and drop-offs. I think I'm perfectly entitled to be here, really, right at the source of all my sleeping troubles, as of late."

It wasn't the irritable tone that dragged a sigh out of her so much as it was the sulk that accompanied such, the feeling of dejection he always seemed to emit while doing so. She wasn't going to deny that the couple weeks prior had been some of the busiest in the quarter. She could have flung back at him his inattentiveness to her attempts to show some form of affection during those scheduled days, in all fairness, but she thought better of it. Instead, she turned her rebuttal to something else.

"For a man in his fifties, you act like a moody teenager." Small tauntings, harmless. She was rewarded with a creeping smirk across his face, a side glance following.

"Well. Moordryd had to get it from somewhere." he replied, eye contact resumed with a full turn of his head.

She searched his eyes, catching the same telltale glaze. It was obvious that even though he was coherent enough to string a sentence together without slurring or losing his train of thought, the call back to sleep was taking its toll. She pushed off the bed to make her way toward him, pausing briefly in front of the couch. She didn't give him much room to question the move before she performed a carefully-maneuvered flop across the top of him, resulting in a responsive 'oof' out of him as she was nuzzling the bridge of her nose against the curve of his lower jaw, beanpole frame matching his across the couch.

"I'm giving up a much-needed bath for zis." she scolded him playfully, feeling the faint reverberation of her voice off his neck. "But I t'ink ve both could really use ze nap."

He chuckled, low and pleasant, his left arm brought to rest at her waist. "I take what I can get. And I'll help you with that later, if you'll let me."

A final deep breath was felt as he shifted into the rhythmic faint breathing patterns of someone on the threshold of sleep, a distinct final relax setting in. It was hypnotic. She had been completely unaware of her own exhaustion until she felt that, her own breathing synchronizing to his and she lost the world in a cloud of his radiant warmth and his familiar comforting scent before she could think of a proper answer.

* * *

**A/N****:** I needed fluff and I needed to write Word collapsing on a couch somewhere. So I combined the two.

not sorry


	12. Cosset

It's the way her nose crinkles in playful distaste as the translator chimes in. He knows she dislikes it and has heard her complain about what would happen if the system ever went down. He always assures her he has memorized enough of her native language to know what needs to be said and heard. Still, she rolls her eyes at it, pulling that low chuckle from him before he offers a hand to her in acceptance of her request. A simple move to placate, and one readily accepted with that charming smile.

They both dance well, hers for competitive purposes turned practical, his strictly practical but no less elegant than if it were only for show. They are graceful separate. When together, they are merely air. He is only mildly surprised that she with her bracings can keep in time with him, his lead across the floor kept in time between them with audible clicking. Changes in pace happen with ease, rhythm shifting to accommodate.

An extend of an arm, she follows the small cue with that laugh of hers. Melodic, like little bells in a wind. It is a noise that leaves him feeling warm, though that is something he would never admit to. A tense of his arm to pull her back, a mingling of low and chiming laughs as she comes spinning back. Momentum continues in the two of them with flaring rotations of orange, black, and white mixing, separating only once speed has slowed to a lazy swirl. Arms around his shoulders, around her waist, foreheads touching while nosetips are in contact. Laughter is still shared, low volumes to keep it just between them. Noses rub once, twice, thrice, before they break away with some reluctance.

Thanks are given for that brief amount of contact, promises of continuation when both are no longer wholly occupied. It's a busy quarter for both of them, with few moments of peace to just them in between. Even after she leaves, her presence lingers still in just that hint of once-lost brightness.

* * *

**A/N****: **I needed more fluff, and a parallel to another microdrabble piece I did earlier. Because laughter and happiness make pairings go 'round.


	13. Bonded

Two steps behind her mother, and the distance widens in every stride. Her little steps are barely big enough to fill a sixteenth of the older woman's steps, but she tries anyway to keep up.

Fae is just old enough to walk without falling over, old enough to want to help instead of sit and play when her mother does her daily chores in the family stables. Her coordination is not good enough yet to hold a full bucket of water or food, but Addi has assured her that the fresh air she carries is just as imperative to dragon health. It swells her little girl with pride to carry something so important.

The stables are a familiar cacophony. Dragons of all shapes and sizes, all breeds and temperaments, reside in the stalls. Santklarr is a well-known name in Yggdrasil, both for sports coaching and for their dragons. Addi Santklarr breeds them for show, and hers are among the more pure lineages. There are very little in their corner of the world that would exceed her lines in purity.

The doors to the stables are opened, the entirety of Addi's stock exiting and filing into the center courtyard. Their handler has brought fresh food and drink for them this morning, one of four scheduled refreshing points for those in dormancy. Dragons in active training will be tended to more often throughout the day. There is a little bit of animosity in a few of them, those known for their tempers. It will lessen as they fill their bellies and peace will return.

Addi makes certain to check on all those who are eating and drop a tiny hint to stick their nose in her daughter's bucket. Dragons are smart creatures, capable of understanding human tongues and even more capable of carrying out requests when asked of them. They each make noise in response and on finishing, move to stick their noses in the younger human's special bucket. It delights her to see her role means something and she pats each nose that dips in with a joyous laugh before they move on to the exercise rings and open pasturing.

She has had to refill the bucket at least three times, like a good stable hand should to provide, when Addi opens the doors to the nursery and hatchery. There are not a lot of pairs at this time of year. The demand for new dragons is small as this is racing season and not necessarily the sporting season. Other stables that breed for racing are receiving more demands for new dragons or experienced racers, leaving the sporting stables in the area with low profit. Santklarr is just one of them, as they do not breed for racing.

They have four breeding pairs at this time. A pair of Magma-class, brilliant red accented in sharp blue; a pair of Nautilus-class, their trademark light blue streaked with judgmental brown; a pair of Pack-class, herding their squealing brood in the pale purple with a touch of fiery red; and a pair of Sonic-class, elegant noisemakers in startling turquoise with blatant lines of blue and green. Two pairs are expecting, two have active broods of three and five. Average clutch sizes, Addi explains. Six or more is considered large, one and two small. Anything in between is just right.

She talks to these dragons too, asking them the same thing requested of those who came before. "Please stick your nose in my daughter's bucket on your way passed. It makes her feel important."

As before, she receives replies in many different ways. Even more than a few chirps or rumbles in the Sonic family; Akuilla, the mother, continues to talk in the full vocabulary for which Sonics are known for almost two minutes. It distracts both mothers from noticing that the dragon's brood has gone from three to two.

Fae is also distracted, her young self concerned more about making sure her bucket is filled and her job is completed for all of the newcoming dragons. She doesn't hear her mother's requests, though she makes mental note that Sonic dragons are very noisy as Akuilla strikes up her part of the conversation. She sticks her head into her bucket to make sure it is properly filled with air, sneezing since it is filled with dust particles and the stale smell of old fish. A chittering squeak behind her startles her into dropping the container on her head, making a noise of disappointment as her invisible stock is ruined.

Carefully, she turns around, pulling the bucket up a bit and staring straight into the face of a young Sonic, not yet with any of the trademark fins as the adults sport. A look at the rest of the brood over her shoulder shows that it is almost half its siblings' sizes. A runt, in plain terms. It looks a little thin, probably from being bulled out of the way by its bigger siblings during feeding time.

It reaches forward with its nose, chirping inquisitively as to the use of the bucket. She knows this because it soon grabs hold of the edge of it and pulls it back down over her head. She gives a squawk at the move in retaliation, hearing it chitter and squeak back. Under the edge of the bucket, she can clearly see its short tail swishing back and forth, tiny bumps near the tip where the spade has started to break through.

It finds the game fun. When she doesn't lift the bucket so it can be pulled down again, the little dragon moves forward and tries to stick its head under the bucket with her. It wrenches a laughing squeal out of her and she pulls back to try and turn around and run off. All it succeeds in doing is confusing her immature navigation abilities and she runs straight into the feeding ring with a loud **clang!** as the bucket hits it and bounces off. She topples with it, laying on the ground stunned and with ringing head beneath the bucket.

The talons of the little dragon make a clicking noise as it comes to her aide, offering chirps and chitters and a variety of other concerned noises at her still form. An inquisitive noise, louder and deeper and likely from the sire, accompanies her collision, the sound of her mother making a small huff as though she cannot believe her child would do such a thing. Sound is amplified in the bucket, once the ringing in her ears quiets, and she can hear everything.

Her solitude is interrupted by a familiar beaked nose, poking again under the edge of the bucket. It chirps first before trying to grip the metal container to pull it off of her head. At first, her young mind thinks it might be concerned for her after causing the accident in the first place. This is dispelled when she lets it have the bucket and it instead trots off with it in its mouth, emitting a strange stuttered noise she can only take as a laugh.

She makes a strangled little noise before standing up again and running after the little Sonic on its way around the feeding ring. "Hey! Give it back, is not yours!"

The Sonic hatchling stops dead, looking contemplative as though measuring the pros and cons of having stolen her bucket. She almost catches up to it when it turns about, chirps in her direction, and offers the container back. She takes it, holding it to herself as though it is her most prized treasure, staring angrily at the dragon runt. Or,at least as angrily as a child of almost four years can be.

"Is mine." she tells it with a firm resolve.

The little dragon, though it is still a bit bigger than she is, cocks its head to one side curiously. It rolls a chirrup toward her, she can only assume it is an apology at first. Until she hears something in it, a syllable.

"_drrrrsssss..._"

It is long, a sibilant hiss at the end. She might have passed it off as another part of Sonic vocabulary if it was not for the unexpectedly sharp 'd' at the beginning. Dragons do not speak, at least not in human tongues. Maybe Sonics mimic noises they hear, like some birds she has read about. She looks slowly toward her mother, who is simultaneously watching her and the rest of the feeding dragons, before looking back toward the runty dragon. A thought crosses her mind and she points at herself.

"Fae."

The dragon cants its head in the other direction, processing this new information before trying again.

"_drrrrrrrrrrussssssssssssss..._"

Another noise is added to the mix as it goes on, drawn longer with a hint of impatience. She shakes her head in response.

"No. Fae."

The Sonic shakes its head and repeats the same as before, pushing the syllables out more forcefully. It is only after this third reiteration that she understands. It is not trying to mimic so much as it is trying to introduce itself. She wrinkles her nose at it comically.

"'Druss' is a weird name."

It has picked up that she at least understands the intent before stomping the ground repeatedly with its front feet, building up to something. There is an odd noise of effort, a drawn high-pitched whine, and then it snaps its head forward with jaws wide mere inches from her face.

To those outside their little bubble, the smallest roar ever recorded by a Sonic is heard, though it still causes heads to turn. To the two young ones, a human child and a hatchling dragon, it finally makes its statement heard.

"**DERRYUS**"

It is fast, sharp. Comes out as a single noise rather than the two-syllable name it really is but she hears it like it should be, complete with an upward inflection at the end.

Before she has a chance to respond, Addi sweeps in to shoo the little creature away to eat. She receives an inquiring chirp at the intrusion but compliance, the dragon trotting off with tail wagging to an open space at the feeding ring to indulge when its siblings are away. Gently placing her hand on her daughter's shoulder, she guides her to stand next to her.

"That one is a bit feisty, but he is a runt and they usually are." she explains. "Are you alright? Do your ears hurt? Taking a roar like that may make you hear less."

It surprises Fae to know there was a roar. She had not heard it inside their little space of influence, so she shakes her head. "I don't think Derryus roared too loud."

Addi's face twists, just a bit. Perhaps a little pensive. "Where did you hear his name was Derryus?"

That resolve of before is back. She crosses her arms at her chest in an attempt to make herself seem more important. "He told me so."

There is silence, if only for a moment while Addi thinks on this. "I think ... when he is done eating, you two should play together a little more."

Fae cannot hide the excitement to being told this and the waiting until the little Sonic is finished is almost unbearable. As soon as he is, she forgets she is trying to help in the stables and leaves the bucket by her mother's feet to rush off with her new companion. She does not see her mother waiting until the pair is a sufficient distance away, pulling up a comm link to her father to tell him their daughter has bonded. She does not hear Vaega Santklarr making up schedules and matching them with his wife concerning their daughter's future.

Fae never hears Derryus speak again. At least never in human tongues.

* * *

**A/N**: When War meets Derryus and their partnership begins. This one was anticipated by a few people. 'Warning' for inexplicable amounts of fluffy adorableness. And Sonics. Lots of those. They require their own warning for shitheadedness.


End file.
